


To Kill a Kingslayer

by bobbiewickham



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:46:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne and Jaime: the end of the story.  Written in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Kill a Kingslayer

It was early spring when the Lady of Tarth celebrated her daughter’s second name-day. The feast was as grand as she could make it. Little Catelyn--so named with permission from Sansa, Arya and Bran--deserved all the pomp Tarth could muster. 

No one, looking at Lady Brienne’s plain clothes and plainer face, would suspect her sneaking fondness for pageantry. She was determined there would be minstrels, and bards, and dancers. There would be gifts. There would be songs. 

Ser Hyle scoffed at her in private, but obeyed his lady’s word. He made most of the arrangements for the feast. She did what she could herself, but Tarth demanded the lion’s share (she still smiled, when she thought of lions) of her attention. The Sapphire Isle was small, but it still needed ruling. Brienne would not leave that to anyone else. 

“I’m your husband, you know. You could let me rule at times.” Hyle was kinder and more honest than he’d been when she first met him, but still as grasping as ever. 

“Tarth is mine,” Brienne said flatly. 

“I know that. I’m not seeking to usurp. Just to share. One flesh, one heart, one soul, remember?” 

“I keep my vows. They don’t require letting you rule in my place. And I let you share. You’re always there to counsel me when the smallfolk make complaints. Managing our daughter’s name-day feast _is_ sharing, anyway.” 

“Women’s work,” Hyle grumbled, but he did it anyway. It was important work, work that brought power and significance, and that always made Hyle happy. 

The feast-day came, and brought with it minstrels, and sellers of all kinds, and distinguished guests. Lord Edric of the Stormlands came to visit his most renowned liege-woman and her heir. Lady Arya Dayne, called the She-wolf of Starfall, came to represent her family and honor her lady mother’s most loyal friend, and brought good wishes from Sansa and Bran. Little Cat stared wide-eyed at Arya’s direwolf. Brienne feared to let the beast near her child at first, but Nymeria watched over Cat like a mother, nudging her away from the hearth when she got too close. Tommen and Myrcella sent ravens. She didn’t know them well, but they knew it was thanks in part to her that Tommen still lived. Other lesser lords of the stormlands came, hoping to seal a friendship with a lady to whom Queen Daenerys proclaimed herself indebted. 

Perhaps the most talked-of guest at the feast was Tyrion the Imp, the Queen’s Hand. Brienne felt for him on sight: she knew what it was to have the sort of compelling ugliness that drew stares. But he wore it like a velvet cloak, with proud unconcern. Besides, his reputation drew far more stares and whispers than his face or his height ever could. 

“My lord Hand,” Brienne said, bowing stiffly. She never could master the curtsy. “May I present to you my daughter and heir, Catelyn of Tarth.” Hyle knelt, holding the babe in his arms, so Tyrion could see.

“She’s lovely, my lady,” the Imp said after a moment. “Lovely blue eyes, like her mother’s…” He paused and gave Brienne a long look. “And lovely golden curls.” 

***  
“You know what you must do, wench.” 

Did he think insulting her would make it easier to do as he said? The old jibe only weakened her even more. 

Her mind told her that he was right. Queen Daenerys was approaching King’s Landing, Lady Catelyn—no, not Lady Catelyn, that vengeful ghost wasn’t Catelyn Tully any longer—Lady _Stoneheart_ held Pod and Ser Hyle. Both women wanted the same thing. 

“You kill me,” Jaime whispered again. “You keep your oath to Catelyn Stark. You please Daenerys Targaryen, and place her in your debt. She favors you—protects you—and never suspects your child is of my seed.” His eyes went to her stomach. It was still flat, and would be for some time, so the midwives told her. “She helps you find the Stark girls, and spares their lives. You keep that oath to Lady Catelyn as well. You save your honor, and mine.” 

“But you’ll be dead, Jaime, and I…” 

“And you’ll be free.” He smiled, bright and sharp. “I should have died long ago, Brienne. Before I pushed the Stark boy out a window. Before I lied to Tyrion. At least I can die before I bring about your death, and our child’s.” 

“I can just _say_ I killed you,” Brienne said. She heard the desperation in her own voice. Part of her was already despairing, already counting the battle lost. She drew in a deep breath. “How are they to know?”

“They’ll want proof, wench.” 

“I can find a hand! Or a head—a head with golden hair. The face will be too rotted to tell, and they’d expect that, anyway.” 

“They’ll be suspicious. You say Catelyn Stark—“

“She’s _not_ Lady Catelyn,” Brienne said fiercely. 

“Have it your way, then—Lady Stoneheart. You say her men heard you call out my name at night. They think you’re my paramour.” 

“Their word for it wasn’t half so kind,” Brienne said. Jaime’s left hand came up to stroke her scarred cheek. 

“They won’t believe it unless they _see_ it, Brienne. Your word on this is suspect. Lady Stoneheart won’t trust you. Daenerys Targaryen certainly won’t. She’ll want to _know_ the Kingslayer’s dead, and so will everyone else.” 

“Don’t call yourself that.” 

“That’s what I am.” The last ray of late-evening sun struck his hair. Standing by the cell’s narrow window-slit, the red-gold light soaking his face, he looked like a knight in a song. Better than that. He looked like the Warrior himself. _But I am no Maiden, no lady fair fit for him._ She was Brienne the Beauty, and he loved her too. He meant her to repay that love with a sword-thrust to the heart. 

“It must be public, wench. So people can confirm your tale to Daenerys and Stoneheart.” 

Brienne blinked back the tears. “I won’t. There must be another way. I won’t do it, I tell you--”

“Then Daenerys or Stoneheart will kill us both, our child will never be born, and the Stark girls are lost forever.” He sounded tired. “It’s your choice, Brienne.” 

Brienne bowed her head. He was right—damnably right. There was only one honorable choice, only one right choice, and it would break what was left of her heart. 

***

They practiced the Kingslayer’s last battle as if it were a dance. She would denounce him for an oath-breaker and a murderer. He would draw his sword, and she would draw hers. He would thrust, she would parry. He would fall back. She would thrust, but his counter-thrust would take her by surprise, leaving a shallow cut on one arm. He would thrust again, taking advantage of her moment of weakness, but she would block and stab at him, sinking her blade into his stomach. 

“No,” she’d said. “I’ll ki—I’ll do it cleanly, with one blow. No stomach wound first.” 

He had his way in this as well. “A clean kill is a dull kill, Brienne. This is my last fight. Let’s give them something to sing about, even if I don’t have my hand.” 

He, wounded, would sink to the ground. She would thrust again and he would try to block, but his remaining hand wouldn’t be firm enough on the hilt. The sword would slip from his hand. She’d thrust yet again, this time into the heart. He would fall. He would die. The Lannisters would mourn, the Starks and Targaryens would rejoice, the bards would sing, and Brienne would live. 

Jaime said he would tell her when the best time was to do it. “You’ll stay hidden, in the depths of the castle, until Daenerys is almost here,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to have everyone know you were here for months and didn’t kill me until Daenerys was at our doorstep. It would look like you were currying favor, not keeping your oath. Daenerys has to know you for an honorable knight.” He couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. 

“I’m no knight,” Brienne said, turning her face away. 

He put his hand under her chin. “You’re the best knight I ever knew,” he said. This time she heard no sneer. He tilted her face towards him and kissed her. She pressed against him hungrily, her hands tugging at his tunic. 

“Promise me something,” he said when they broke apart for breath, “If it’s a girl, promise me you’ll raise her to be just like you. And if it’s a boy…raise him to be like you, too.” 

He was tender to her that night, more tender than he’d ever been before. When they lay together he was often playful, sometimes passionate. But this night every caress was delicate and careful. 

In the morning, when she woke, he was dressed and had his sword strapped to him. “We do it today,” he said simply, and she was not surprised. 

They danced on the battlement, their swords clashing against each other. It was exactly as they’d practiced it. She denounced. He thrust. She parried. She thrust. He thrust back, and thrust again. She blocked. She stabbed. He stumbled. She thrust. He tried to block. He failed. She struck the final blow. He fell. He died. 

The Lannister men, clustered on the ground, let out a collective gasp. They didn’t know what to do. He was their leader, and without him Daenerys would surely take King’s Landing in less than half a day. In the confusion Brienne made her escape, and laid low until Queen Daenerys sat the Iron Throne. 

“Why did you kill him?” The new Queen was slender and frail-looking, but her voice was stern. 

“I swore an oath, Your Grace.” And she explained the story of Lady Catelyn and her vow. 

The Queen’s thanks were regal but profuse, and Brienne was able to exact a promise to find and protect the Stark girls.

Lady Stoneheart did not thank her. But she released Pod and Hyle. “When she sees her daughters,” said Thoros of Myr, “she will end this second life of hers.” Brienne could only be grateful for that. Catelyn Stark deserved a peaceful grave. 

When Hyle repeated his proposal of marriage, Brienne pretended to demur. Hyle shouldn’t know she had any pressing problem marriage could solve. He would take any advantage he was given. But she agreed as quickly as she could without letting him scent blood. Better for everyone if she named a father for her child—speculation about the “Kingslayer” and his “whore” could be fatal. It was early in the pregnancy yet. If she married soon, no one would think the child wasn’t Hyle’s. 

***

Brienne took a large swallow of her summerwine. The minstrel was playing “The Kingslayer’s Last Fight.” Again. He was the fifth minstrel to play it, and they’d all done it at least twice. It was a compliment to their hostess, and they were hoping to leave with full purses. 

“The Maid of Tarth fought bold and fierce, her sword flashed in the sun.” His voice was pleasant enough; she couldn’t fault him there. “And though the Kingslayer’s might was great, the battle still was won, oh,” he gave a long strum on his lute, “By the brave young maid, her eyes as blue as the waters of the Sapphire Isle. A true knight at heart, she fought like a man, and slew the traitor vile.” 

Hyle looked over at Brienne and smiled. She drained her goblet. Brienne was happy. She had Tarth and little Catelyn and yes, even Hyle. She made her father content when he passed. She ruled Tarth well. But as happy as she was, she could never abide this song, and yet couldn’t find the words to make people stop playing it. 

“A true knight,” Tyrion the Imp murmured. “So the smallfolk all say, my lady. I’ve not seen a place so justly governed as Tarth.” 

“You are too kind, my lord.” 

“Not nearly kind enough.” He reached over to stroke little Catelyn’s curls. “She looks,” he said thoughtfully, “like my niece.” 

Brienne held herself very still. “Myrcella, my lord?” 

Tyrion turned to look her fully in the face. Brienne kept impassive. “Yes,” he said finally, his mouth curving into a twisted grin. “She does look like Myrcella, yes.” 

Happily, the minstrel moved on to “My Lady Wife.” But the Imp was not finished. “I loved my brother,” he said. “I hated him, too, by the end, but I always loved him.” He made a grotesque face at Catelyn, who giggled with delight. “She seems to like me.” 

“Indeed she does, my lord.” What did he know? He could know nothing. But what did he guess? 

“Well,” Tyrion said, “If she’s anything like her parents, she’ll make a fine ruler for Tarth.” He winked at her before turning back to the amusements. 

Brienne pulled her daughter close, and surreptitiously looked at a letter from the closest neighboring lord about sharing the latest harvest, as the music played on.


End file.
